Neglect
by Leinad Rengaw
Summary: After Arthas' expedition the human settlements of Northrend were abandoned by civilization. But while their brethren forgot them, the Scourge did not. The human town of Farshire sits in undead-controlled Northrend. They must survive and hope their call for aid will be answered by those who would rather forget Northrend exists.
1. The Sheriff of Farshire

_To His Grace Anduin Llane Wrynn, King of Stormwind and last of the Human Monarchs,_

_Delivering mail from Northrend is no small task, so I hope you will excuse that I have been unable to send my condolences for the loss of your Royal Father until now. _

_I will be forthright. Previously our humble settlement had sworn fealty to the King of Lordaeron. But now both the House of Menethil and the realm of Lordaeron, our original home, have perished. As Your Grace is the only remaining Sovereign of Humanity, as mayor of Farshire I pledge to you the fealty of Farshire and therefore dominion over the lands of Farshire and all the rents, incomes and taxes therein. _

_Yet we are but one of only two remaining holdfasts in Northrend, and the undead have reappeared after an absence of several years. They have yet to attempt a serious incursion but we have only one fighting man, a sheriff of decidedly dubious honour. Our nearest hope of aid, Valgarde, has declined to assist us, reserving men to launch sorties against the naga. As such as the last bastion of Humanity, Stormwind is our only hope for relief. The difficulty of farming in Northrend consumes all hands; we can spare none for a guard. I beseech you to send us a detachment of men for protection, or at the very least arms, our smith knows neither armor nor weapon smithing. If we are pressed in our current state we shall most surely perish._

_The only thing you may not ask of us is evacuation- Farshire is our home now, we have lost Lordaeron but we shall not let our new home fall as well. I throw myself upon Your Royal Mercy. Please, you are our last hope. Please save us._

_Your Loyal Servant,_

_Tobius Clerk, Mayor of Farshire_

* * *

"It were the Cult of the Damned I tell ye!" Old man Jenkins gesticulated wildly as he said this, as if he were fending off a swarm of bees. The man he was raving to found this image decidedly satisfying and struggled to stifle a smile.

"I doubt the Cult has taken up cattle rustling, and furthermore I can't imagine who would want to steal your cattle, you've starved them down to skin and bones with your thriftiness," deadpanned the sheriff. He thoughtfully stroked his whiskers to hide his smirk.

"That's just what a Cultist would say! How do I know ye haven't gone over, seeing as your so fond of changing yer colours deserter!" Spittle burst from Jenkin's mouth has he hurled invectives.

Sheriff Desechain sighed and removed the hand from his face- a thin line had replaced his contemptuous grin. The newly liberated hand longingly stroked the hilt and guard of his saber, and resisted the urge to rend old man Jenkins from head to groin, and see if he could still run his mouth then. It was as much the repetition as the insult that bothered him- every month or so old man Jenkins would summon the Sheriff over some imagined slight, accuse the Cult of the Damned or some neighbor he disliked and then accuse the sheriff of being in on whatever scheme Jenkins thought he was the target of.

"Well Brynn what say y-" began Jenkins, but sheriff Desechain was having none of it.

"That is Sheriff Desechain to you," snapped Brynn Desechain, "and I say you're going senile and misplaced this heifer if she ever existed."

"Wha- How dare ye lookin' fer Betsy ain't no snipe hunt and you'll inves-ti-gate as ye're bound." He delivered this command in his best pontificating voice, which might have once been impressive before both his voice and person became withered and thin. That this one sentence also cost all his breath and triggered a series of hacking coughs robbed it of any remaining grandeur, and the sheriff broke in rather than let this become a sermon.

"It is a snipe hunt because I will find neither Betsy nor any evidence that she was stolen, eaten by ghouls, harried by harpies, desecrated by the Drakkai or, what was your theory about the hammer last month, taken by the "iron dwarves?" " The sheriff's voice began as an exasperated growl, becoming cold and mocking at the end. His patience with Jenkins had been exhausted before he became sheriff, and he had never found more.

"They're real I tell ye! I seen them myself! All iron and cold with great golumns and hatin all fle-" blustered Jenkins, but sheriff Desechain cut him off again.

"Uh-huh, I'll check the counts of the surrounding herds, see if there are any unexplained additions. Good day, Mr. Jenkins." Sheriff Desechain was sure the old man was wasting his time on purpose. Still, it was strange that a man as avaricious as Jenkins had not yet relented- he could not sell or lease any of the property he claimed was missing. Jenkins must truly hate him to forgo more gold than many in Farshire made in a year. Still, he would investigate- there wasn't much to do in Northrend.

"Wha about Cult-tists or ravening beasts? My Betsy must have justice-" began old man Jenkins, until Brynn cut him off for a third time. He took his enjoyment where he could in these exchanges.

"There are no cultists and I am not going to raise a posse to bring wolves to justice."

"Ba tha Light tha Mayor shall he-ya of yer impudence!" So saying, old man Jenkins slammed a fist into the wall of his cottage. It was a throwback to Lordaeron, one of those eerie wood-and-thatch one-room cottages that all seemed identical. Only a man rich as Jenkins could afford the fuel to heat such a house, uninsulated by sod, in this forsaken place.

"I expect everyone with the misfortune to meet you before you die will hear your grievances with me." And with that Sheriff Desechain galloped off, Jenkin's squawks about threats and abuse of power dogging him down the dirt track. Jenkin's cottage shrank behind him but remained in view; very little grew in the tundra which combined with the constant elevation gave a line of sight for miles almost anywhere in Farshire. The lack of cover also allowed a cold wind to scythe across the whole Borean Tundra. Even in summer the wind bit and nagged, imperceptibly sapping one's strength until naught was left but a lethargic husk. In winter, as the land rose up against everything warm, the scything of the wind ceased to be metaphorical- any man cut by it would bleed out all of his warmth within an hour.

Brynn Desechain slowed his horse, a repurposed plow-puller, so that he could wrap himself better in his cloak- he was glad the wind was still in the nagging stage. The plate mixed into his gear did little to warm him. In fact the left gauntlet, greaves and boots- scuffed from use, the armor of a footman of Lordaeron, its seal upon his spurs and belt buckle- held in cold rather than repelling it, but he dared not remove them in exchange for the same type of thick mismatched furs which comprised the rest of his raiment. His need was as much psychological as practical, armor was rare here but more importantly this set had been through hell with him. Three overlapping arcs of gouges marked the top and bottom of the gauntlet- teethmarks. Long scratches, five each and parallel on each greave, did not match any bladed weapon. The sheriff himself displayed damage. His faded blue cloak had no hood to accommodate a helmet now long gone, revealing a gaunt face covered in short whiskers, as if their owner could not decide between being clean shaven or bearded. His hair might have been blonde once but now it was faded and brittle. The sheriff ran a hand through it slowly, his eyes, either blue or grey and far too close to call, unfocused and lost in thought.

A shimmer in his peripheral vision snapped Brynn Desechain out of the beginnings of his brooding. A man who did not live in Northrend would have called it heat haze. One who had been through less than Brynn would have dismissed it as nothing. But Brynn was far too paranoid for that- by reflex his gauntlet seized the sword hilt on his right hip and his gloved right hand thrust into the pouch upon his left hip a moment after, filling his fist with powder. Deftly uncrossing his arms Brynn brought his saber to the en garde position and hurled the dust of appearance with his off hand.

Both his aim and suspicions were true as the dust revealed the shade ahead and on his left, floating between the height of a man on foot and a man ahorse. The shade was a twisted parody of the man who had been sacrificed to create it, a floating, smoky ink torso- except for the eyes. The eyes smoldered purple. Brynn had fought other undead, and he had learned to see the shadow of the human in their eyes- the pain, horror and regret, the wish for it to end. In these were only surprise at its discovery- this one had given himself up willingly.

That more than anything stoked Brynn's fury. He kicked with his spurs, burying the spidery L and banner of Lordaeron in his horse's flanks. It feared the unliving thing before it but it feared the fury of its rider even more and surged forward, wide eyes rolling and teeth bared.

The shade tried to run but it had positioned itself badly, too far from the fence on either side of the road to take cover and square in the path of Brynn's sword arm.

"LORDAERON!" Brynn's warcry cracked and became a war-shriek halfway through as he rode down the shade, leaning low and left out of the saddle and striking up and right, his full weight behind the reckless strike of the saber as he wrenched himself back into his saddle. He wheeled his screaming mount around for another pass. He needn't have bothered.

The shade's neck boiled where the sword struck, exploding into smoke and quickly followed by the rest of the shade as it gurgled the last breath of its second life. Brynn gagged as the corpse fumes washed over him, filling his nostrils with the musty scent of dried blood and rot. And beef.


	2. The Worst Sort of Meeting

_To Tobius Clerk, Mayor of Farshire,_

_It heartens me to hear of more survivors of Lordaeron; so few survived its fall to the undead. Yet we are hard pressed at home. Murlocs, bandits and Light knows what else constantly worry our stripped down defenses. The bulk of our forces are still scattered throughout Outland. Much of the original expedition is still unaccounted for and after the renewal of hope paradoxically offered by the Dark Portal no one is likely to break off the search soon. Some of these men will never return, but instead shall receive postings in settlements strung through that blasted hellscape. Unfortunately the House of Nobles is quite taken with the idea of an interdimensional empire, despite the fact that it is a massive overextension into wilderness second only to Northrend in danger and is freely interwoven with Horde holdings. They have demanded that we maintain our positions despite the high costs in man and coin without hope of gain._

_What I have been able to recall is spoken for fighting the Horde, which has been bolstered by most of Kael's army now that he is dead. You are asking me to open another front with no enforceable lines against an eldrich kingdom, either leaving not just Stormwind but the Alliance vulnerable to the Horde or worse yet provoke the Horde to seize holdings in Northrend. Do you have any idea how fast the damnable orcs breed? We may already drown in them with all the living space they have acquired in Outland - they are foul and can thrive there as humans cannot. You ask me to unleash a chain of events that may well result in a second sack of Stormwind. I cannot place my country in such a position no matter how much I wish to support you._

_Arms we may be able to spare but only if the Crown is able to collect what it is owed from Stormwinds' nobles, who have decided to withhold the taxes they owe until literal hell and high water. It will likely be years before this is the case, as the House seems to believe it should play no part in paying for the misadventures it demands. However, Valgarde, the other remaining settlement in Northrend, is also comprised of survivors from Lordaeron, and soldiers all. I find it odd that they would decline to aid you. On behalf of King Wrynn I will offer them annexation and see if I cannot prevail upon them to give you aid. I doubt they will refuse, most refugees and even Theramore at large have been not just willing but eager to have a new King and a cause to serve; however they are distant so do not expect aid immediately. I ask you to reconsider your decision against evacuation, you would be welcomed with open arms by the community of Lordaeron survivors._

_Regretfully,_

_Highlord Bolvar Fordragon, Regent of Stormwind_

* * *

Brynn Desechain struggled, cold and trapped on the steps of a sunken ship. He could not breathe, a crushing weight pinned him and forced the air from his lungs. His hair floated around him in a nimbus as icy panic flowed through his limbs.

The sheriff swore, turned on his heel and strode back to the hitching rail where his horse was tied. The steps of the ship were now the steps to Farshire Town Hall- it had been built from the timbers of the ship that had brought the original colonists from Lordaeron, the "Northern Endeavor", which had ended its journey on the Ocean's Dagger. The force that had trapped him was indecision, not the sea, and it was the wind that swirled his hair rather than currents. Brynn stood by the hitching rail on the left wing of the town hall, looking along the hall's front to the sea. The Ocean's Dagger was a spire of rock concealed by the slate gray waters of False Harbor, just visible at low tide if you knew where to look. A thin peninsula jutted from the coast just south of Farshire, sheltering False Harbor and tempting ships hoping for safe anchor onto the Ocean's Dagger. Many ships, considering how few sailed this far north, had been lost in this way over the history of Farshire, providing the materials for all of Farshire's timber buildings. Brynn thought that no beacon had ever been built to warn of False Harbor could not have been an accident- no trees grew in the Borean Tundra and as such wood was exceedingly valuable. Criminal negligence that had to be corrected. The sheriff sucked his teeth and looked rueful. Where to begin? Both the Jenkinses and Darrens had a hand in the salvage business, there could be grounds for fines, and as for the sailors, dead in the sea-

Suddenly Sheriff Desechain remembered why he was at town hall. The shade, not yet an hour dead. He knew he had to report it- withholding information, even for a day, when the Cult the Damned were involved would get him lynched as a cultist, star on his chest or not. On the other hand, given his history a lynching was in the cards even if he did his duty. And it wasn't as if he could expect help after raising the alarm as in any normal town. Mayor Clerk, a fat orb of a man in Brynn's opinion, could speak prettily enough but he rarely found the energy to stir himself to real action. How such a man, his city upbringing leaving him woefully unprepared for life on the frontier, ever became mayor of the farthest flung outpost of humanity utterly baffled Brynn. He shifted his gaze left from the sea to the town hall. Like Jenkins' cottage it was one of an order, twin to every town hall in Lordaeron, where "architectural variation" was dangerous talk that could get you branded a warlock. It had the standard peaked clock tower, entrance right of center and peaked roof. However, the sides of the roof bowed outwards as it was in fact the hull of the "Northern Endeavor" covered in shingles and with the holes patched. The sheriff returned to the steps and stood, his jaw clenched, hoping the decision he had to make would become easier.

Yet instead of clarity, waiting delivered increasing numbness in Brynn's extremities- the steps of the town hall were not shielded against the wind.

Light damn it.

Brynn forced open the door and threw himself into the town hall as a man dives into icy water- too fast for him to realize how miserable he is about to be.

"Those mammoth belong to King Wrynn! How DARE you poach one?" blustered Mayor Clerk.

"Pull the other one Mayor. You said the same thing about King Menethil, but I never once saw him huntin' one." Jeremiah the poacher casually trimmed his nails with a massive hunting knife as he said this, lounging in an armchair he had pulled up to the Mayor's desk. The decidedly more spare chair intended for those doing business with the Mayor had become Jeremiah's footrest. Mayor Tobius Clerk's round, hairless face had turned crimson in his fury, so that it matched his smoking jacket, not that there had been tobacco in Farshire in memory. His brown eyes had become slits in a mass of ridges- it appeared as if the mayor had clenched his face, giving him the aspect of a bulldog with a black comb over. Brynn would have been impressed if he hadn't known the man better, and Jeremiah paid no heed to the ferocious visage. He wore an easy smile under his shaggy mane of brown hair, down to his shoulders in the back and a thick beard in front. A few grey hairs peaked out here and there, but otherwise it was an eerie match for the massive mammoth skin robe that engulfed the poacher.

The mayor attempted to collect himself as Jeremiah swept his nail trimmings into a pile on the mahogany desk. "That's because King Menethil was an old man when you were born, far too old for such things, and -"

Jeremiah cut in with surprising swiftness for a man in repose. "And thousands of leagues away to boot so what use did he have for a mammoth? None apparently, his son didn't even bring one back when he came, I would have given him one since you'd always said they belonged to him. And now you've done given them all away to another King, a child. How do you expect him to take a mammoth?" Can't get a draw on a bow with those little arms or heave a spear- and don't tell me guns, can't go startin' a stampede. And don't go on bout before I was born when you dye you hair black and scalp purple with that squid juice, tryin' to look younger." Jeremiah continued to drawl and dump his nail shavings on the mayor's desk. A vein on the mayor's forehead threatened to pop while he surreptitiously opened a drawer of his desk- Brynn knew he had a looking glass in it. Absorbed in his hair, he did not seem to notice Brynn, quite a feat given his position.

The mayor's desk, with a bearded fish, the Northern Endeavor's figurehead, mounted above it, sat on the raised platform with a railing at the end of the right wing of the hall, facing the floor where a richer town might have had pews. Instead there was a hodge-podge of spindly, splintery wooden chairs, several large rocks and two bucket seats made from inverted mammoth skulls and leather. For large meetings townsfolk would bring extra stools, and "Lord" Brighttree dragged his armchair over for every meeting. This room extended all the way to the end of the left wing, ending at a massive hearth which held a smoldering mat of peat moss. The one chamber comprised the whole of the town hall. Brynn stood about halfway down it where the entranceway broke in.

Jeremiah had heard him enter and, having defeated the mayor's first sally on the issue, chose that moment to acknowledge the sheriff's presence and close the matter. Despite his folksy nature the poacher was a master at manipulating the officious mayor when he wanted to be. "Good day to you sheriff, and mighty fine to see ya!" Brynn would have called almost anyone else in the town a liar at this point, but Jeremiah was one of his few friends in Farshire, perhaps because the sheriff never bothered himself about "poaching." At Jeremiah's greeting Tobius Clerk snapped to awareness, a movement that caused his whole body to jiggle.

"Is it Jenkins, sheriff? He was by first thing this morning, something about his cow getting robbed? I admit I paid him little mind as I had just received a bird from Stormwind with their reply. I hope you weren't flippant, the man is irascible enough as it is, always second guessing my decisions, the nerve of that unqualified sodbuster. He's a constant pain and I don't need you making it worse." The sheriff suppressed the urge to cut off the mayor's pompous dialogue.

"Don't worry mayor, I reckon he'll finish drying up and blow away any day now." This jest from Jeremiah earned a glare from the mayor, but the sheriff did not reply. He advanced solemnly, his boots drumming a slow and ominous beat on the floor and then the stairs to the mayor's desk. Steeling himself, he put a hand on the guard of his saber and the other on the desk, facing the mayor full on. The sheriff of Farshire cut to the heart of the matter.

"Ill news I'm afraid, I slew a shade not an hour ago. It may have just been poking around or it could be scouting for an attack- either way I set my warrant that we'll see more undead before the year is out, we must prepare at once." The mayor's face turned from red to sheet white faster than Brynn would have believed a moment ago and Jeremiah retrieved his bow and quiver from where he had propped them against the seasoned wood of the wall.

Before either Tobius or Jeremiah could respond the doors to the town hall blasted open; Jeremiah had his bow out and an arrow knocked almost as fast as Brynn drew his sword- the mayor dove behind his desk. But while he was not much of an improvement on ghouls, it was old man Jenkins who hobbled in before the doors bounced off the walls and shut again, shouting and gesticulating with a heavy bone cane. "Mayor Clerk, that Cul-tist of a sheriff you don' 'pointed don' stole ma Betsy and prayed for ma death on ma property, hollerin' and frightenin' an old man half ta dea-"

At this point Tobius Clerk reappeared from under his desk, a pistol jiggling in a two-handed death grip. "YOU'LL NOT TAKE OUR HOME WITHOUT A FIGHT UNDEAD SCUM" roared the mayor who then fired at Jenkins, clearly not realizing what had happened. Bad as his aim was Jenkins might have died right there had the end of Brynn's saber not flicked the pistol up, causing the bullet to bury itself in a thick rafter. The mayor squeezed one eye open to check his work, dropped his pistol in shock and vanished behind his desk once again.

Jenkins didn't miss a beat. "Conspirin' ta kill me and take ma property fer yerselfs is ya, and murder ma family in the bargain as well I'll wager? Or did one of em' put ye up to it? Stevron musta been, tha boy could neva stomach blood, tho I'm proud o' tha boy fer havin tha guts ta do somethin'." At this point it one could chalk up Jenkins' accusations to paranoia or dementia, it was hard to tell.

"The mayor thought you were a ghoul you sod, I certainly did when I had the misfortune of meeting you" countered Brynn. "I encountered a shade, an outrider of the scourge not a mile from your house! We may well be besieged, so clamp your dusty maw while the adults in the room try to stop us all from being eaten. Speaking of eating, it smelled like the shade had eaten your cow, I didn't know they needed foo-"

"Betsy gone done got herself et? Naw, say it ain't true sheriff!" Following this Jenkins collapsed into a bucket seat and covered his face with his hands. Jeremiah gave a snort that was half contempt, half amusement and settled back into a chair that Brynn realized was Jenkins'.

Still very pale, the mayor hoisted himself back into his chair. "I must call a meeting! And write for aid at once!" Mayor Clerk's jowls wiggled franticly as he said this. Brynn saw out of the corner of his eye that Jeremiah was battling against laughter, despite the situation. "Perhaps Valgarde can be swayed, Highlord Bolvar has agreed to speak on our behalf in his reply to my earlier writing, we must make the dire nature of our need clear!" The mayor wrung his hands so fast Brynn was surprised he didn't see sparks fly. "Most unfortunately, King Wrynn has no men to offer us-"

"You still gave him the mammoths?" Jeremiah gagged with disgust, his humor gone. "What's the point of pledgin' and scrapin' to all these kings? No Menethil ever did anythin' for us, why would kings with a funnier name be any different?" When Mayor Clerk pointedly ignored him, Jeremiah opened the drawer with the looking glass in the mayor's desk and began using it to trim his beard, scattering hair everywhere. The mayor sighed and got his parchment and quill out.

"I'm sure you can handle the letter writing mayor. I'll sound the call, gather the townsfolk, it shall be a joyous task to me. You know how I love them so." Bitter as Brynn's tone was, Jeremiah had surpassed it in his outburst. The sheriff didn't think he had ever seen the easy-going poacher so wound up. Then again, he hadn't seen a shade in years and had hoped to never see another. The sheriff of Farshire opened the hidden door in the wall of the hall on the mayor's left and mounted the steps to the bell tower. Not that he could ring the bell, Tobius insisted that different numbers and patterns of rings could be used to send different messages, had been in Lordaeron and still were in Stormwind, but the bell meant only one thing to the people of Farshire: War. Mayor Clerk and Father Miller had tried to sound a call to prayer using some code based on the meter of scripture or some such- the panicked villagers hadn't appreciated the symbolism and might have lynched them both if Brynn hadn't borrowed a jar of mammoth musk from Jeremiah and used it to clear the crowd. So instead there was the shell horn. Brynn reached the top of the belltower, a box room with a shaft going down to the roof of the hall below. The walls only came up to his waist, beams going the rest of the way up to the roof and leaving an open band to let out the bell's tolling, and now the horn's. It was a cold sea conch shell, an irregular, spiky cylinder, but the interior bore a sickly blue patina instead of the warm pink of its warmer cousins. The thing felt unnatural to Brynn and he thought it sounded far more dread than the bell to boot. All the same, he hefted it, the thing was two feet long, to his lips and blew with all his might.

"" moaned the horn, sweeping over the small town and out, to the south from which no help would come, north to the man who had been Brynn's Prince and commander- over a black, cold land of danger against Farshire feebly struggled, no help in sight.


	3. One of Us is Lying

_To Captain Luc Valenforth, Commander of Valgarde,_

_Our situation has grown even direr since my last writing. I have yet to receive a response- was the bird lost or do you find slaughtering the washed-up fishmen so engrossing? Fears have become reality- a shade was found within Farshire. Such things can only be created by the Cult of the Damned- I fear we have a traitor in our midst- possibly the man you have foisted off upon us. You cannot continue to ignore Farshire, our fortunes are bound together despite what you think. Do you truly believe what you have implied in other letters, that Valgarde can hold on its own against the Scourge and Light knows what else is infesting this place? We must stand together if we are to have any hope of survival, and put our hopes in something other than memories of Lordaeron._

_Your last response suggested that you expected some sort of aid or instructions- with whom you are conversing I cannot imagine, there is no one alive left to write to much less to command us or provide support. Of all the chivalry of Lordaeron the only remaining notable is Weldon of the House of Barov. The seats of all other Houses have defaulted to distant relatives, exiles, and lesser sons, by and large they are no true men of Lordaeron or worse yet lost in the madness of the Scarlet Crusade. For Light's sake, "Lord" Brighttree, the result of that incident with the elves is now head of both the House of Avon and the House of Brighttree. There is no Lordaeron anymore. The undead have taken our leaders, lands and people- our only hope lies with Stormwind, as I have told you more than once. I hope that you have thought upon the matter and become more reasonable on the subject. Understand that while I disagree with your acerbic take on it I like it no more than you, but our hand is forced. Your settlement was never intended and there were humans inland when Farshire was founded. I too mourn for our homeland but nostalgia begets death in this merciless land. Highlord Bolvar Fordragon has written to you offering the support of Stormwind; a letter you should be receiving shortly if you haven't already. I beg you to accept for both our sakes. I know the Crusade is more to the taste of men of action as I found the hard way when their ill-fated fleet made port here. Our previous sheriff, guard garrison, master alchemist and many other able bodied joined their ill-fated expedition, never to return. They still fly the banner of Lordaeron but they have abandoned hope for life in favor of revenge. You will get naught but a heroic death from them, and if you were the sort for such things you would have done so long ago._

_Hoping you will see reason,_

_Tobius Clerk, Mayor of Farshire_

* * *

Brynn was not certain of his headcount but it appeared every citizen of Farshire had answered the call or damn near it; he had fended off questions from most of them as they trickled in far too slowly for his liking. Never mind what needed doing with the crops, the sheriff knew honor, duty and blades but cared not for farming. Horns were not sounded to discuss the town budget for the coming year- you were bound to come when called. Oh well. Brynn wasn't the one who had to ride home in the dark after hearing about an imminent undead attack. "Sarlock" was the last to arrive in her ragged dark cloak, even after Brighttree lugging his winged armchair, his hair a wild mess from exertion revealing the mismatched ears of a half-elf. "Sarlock" reluctantly sat in one of the mammoth skulls, the last open seat, glass clinking under her cloak. The townsfolk had a superstitious fear of the skulls, which suited Brynn fine as they were quite comfortable.

Jeremiah's bow saved the other for Brynn but like as not he would be standing this whole meeting. "Sarlock" broke the silence with her best attempt at an intimidating voice. "Why have I been summoned? My studies are of great import and as the sole learned member of"- at this Father Miller clicked his tongue, the mayor issued what sounded a great deal like a growl and Brighttree fell out of his chair laughing -" this desolate place I should not be idly interrupted." "Sarlock" forged on as if nothing had happened. "My great wisdom can neither grow nor benefit the unenlightened if I am constantly subjected to your nattering." To her credit "Sarlock" had managed to make herself heard even as Brighttree gasped and pounded on the floor, breathless with laughter.

"How many a'times has yer wisdom set yer house on fire girl?" quipped old man Jenkins. Oddly enough Jenkins' son Stevron, a stiff and blank man in a stiff and blank set of tunic and overalls, was one of the few not to join in the ensuing laughter.

"That was uncalled for Zebadiah. Afraid to jest at a grown man's expense?" Gerald Green fixed the old man with a stern gaze as he said this, while Brynn's eyebrows ascended his forehead, summiting beneath his ragged bangs. Gerald had forcibly removed Sarah Green from his house after the first fire and her adoption of the name "Sarlock". She was his sister. Or cousin. Or aunt. Brynn could never remember which, a failing that did not unduly trouble him. The two could not have been more different. Gerald was balding, stocky and the most down-to-earth man in the bleak little town of Farshire. Sarah had been shaping up to be an attractive blonde, or so Brynn was told, before she disappeared under her cloak, declared herself "Sarlock" and moved into Phoebius' abandoned house in an attempt to fill his role as master alchemist. Brynn had only ever seen the figure enveloped in a cloak stained many dark hues by potions, collecting herbs at odd hours but otherwise remaining closeted in the increasingly distressed alchemist's hovel. Sarah had actually been Phoebius' assistant as a child and had picked up enough to make potions, but not enough to make them well. Judging by the variable quality and quantity of her wares, she was still struggling with that second skill. Brynn had once taken one of her healing potions and then found himself in the court of the Lizard King Terenas Menethil III and had promptly sworn himself to his scaly service. He had been sent to "subdue the rebels of caterpillar land" before waking and deciding that bandages would suffice for his next injury. It strained belief that the two were related, and indeed they had not spoken to each other in years. Gerald seldom held grudges yet his aid for Sarah was out of character...

Out of the corner of his eye the sheriff noticed that Green and Jenkins' argument had ceased. As in every previous rendition naught had come of it, but now the mayor spoke. "Sheriff Desechain, give the townsfolk the same report you gave me." The mayor passed off the announcement, playing hot potato with the additional rule that if the game took too long ghouls ate everyone. Partly with this in mind but mostly to spite the mayor, Brynn was blunt.

"A shade was found scouting Jenkin's farm. While not a direct threat shades can only be produced by the Cult of the Damned and never travel alone. The Scourge is likely preparing a push against Farshire, and at least one Cult member is nearby." You would have thought Brynn had drawn his saber and gored the mayor from the reaction he got. Stevron's face twitched manically; his father had not warned him. Mammoth and Ice Horn, two of Jeremiah's comrades named for the skins they wore, had been forewarned but looked grim all the same. Brighttree sat rigid in his chair, a stern and chilled expression on his usually jovial face. Gerald Green swore and put his head in his hands. These were the composed reactions. Scarlet shrieked and wrapped herself around Gerald. She usually charged for that sort of thing. Sarah Green produced a large flask from under her robes just in time to vomit into it. Wendy Darren drew a dagger as if she expected ghouls to plunge through the crude windows. In the corner, Father Miller began giving himself last rites. Lester Stubbins pulled a wooden carving of what looked like an octopus but with too many tentacles and began rubbing it and chanting. Many others among the assembled were openly weeping or worse. The sheriff gagged at their reactions. He would have thought a land this harsh would have bred a harder people, but most looked ready to break and flee.

The sheriff took control before someone suggested mass suicide. "Since there are no abominations battering down the door it seems we have some time to prepare. Most importantly, we have time to deal with the issue of the Cult. Shades can only be produced by sacrificing willing Cult members and are too fragile for long journeys, which means an altar of some sort and those who built and used the foul thing are in or near Farshire."

"We must search the surrounding area! No outside could hide such a thing from us in our land!" Wendy had found her voice but not her dagger's sheath; she waved it above her head as she spoke prompting nervous looks from those adjacent. The sheriff had been afraid of this. No one had an exact tally of Farshire's population but it didn't go far past one-hundred if that- everyone knew everyone else from birth and couldn't see them as a Cultist. To them the Cult of the Damned were strangers in dark robes embroidered with eldritch runes, but the Cult's strength was its ability to blend in. Like as not at least one Cultist was in the room and there was nothing they could do about it. Brighttree's parentage had prevented him from becoming a Magister despite his skill in magic but most Cultists knew enough arcana to cover their spell's tracks- it would take an Archmage to sniff them out. A rare few of the most powerful paladins could sense evil but the Scarlet Crusade had spirited off all likely candidates in the area. That meant Brynn had to convince the townsfolk that at least one of their own had betrayed them and drag them through an investigation that meant death for someone they knew.

Jeremiah broke in at this point, smothering the false hope of interlopers. "Me, Ice Horn and Mammoth know this country better'n anything else and haven't seen hide nor hair of any Cultists; no one new has been foraging in the area neither. They've got beds and food in town somewhere. Someone in town has gone over to the other side." As a native, Jeremiah's pronouncement met worried acceptance rather than argument as it would have from Brynn.

Mayor Clerk spoke up, catching Brynn unaware. "But no one has gone missing, they would have had to bring in a sacrifice and such a thing could not be done without my knowledge. No new person has arrived in years." But one of the gathered knew how such a thing could be done. Lester twitched nervously and began to sweat profusely. The sheriff, like everyone else, did not notice, his full attention and a questioning look trained on the mayor. What the hell was he doing? The man was far too eager to please, not realizing how much respect his cow-towing cost him. Was he going to contradict the report of the shade and say everything was alright? The sheriff had been appointed because there were no other candidates- he had never been popular, and turning on him would be a sure way for Tobius to win the next election. Brynn realized belatedly that he should have planned out the meeting before blowing the horn. As in most things Tobius could not lie to save his life so either way the sheriff could have prepared for what was coming. But if the mayor named him a liar in the packed town hall Brynn didn't think he could cut his way out. And even if he could, it would be a poor end to a life spent in the service of Lordaeron.

What exactly the mayor had in mind for the meeting he took with him to the grave. Lester Stubbins instead issued the challenge. "On whose word? Weren't no one with you when you killed this shade. You ain't from these parts and you deserted when Lordaeron needed you the most, your word ain't worth nothin'!" His voice was high and accusatory, crackling like a sail in the wind. Stubbins was one of the truly destitute in the community, filthy black hair wreathing his head except for the sores, clad in brown rags and sustained more by religion than the meager food he could purchase doing odd jobs. Except that if he followed the Light Stubbins did it very differently from anyone else Brynn had ever seen. When he had asked Father Miller about it the priest launched into a long-winded history of the practices of various mystic sects and orders which did little to allay the sheriff's concern.

"I don't recall the mayor saying I was alone" parried the sheriff in a falsely calm voice, slowly, deliberately, an accusation of his own plain for those few not having a breakdown to see. A risky gambit, Stubbins was disreputable but he did not invite hate the way the technically correct charge of desertion did; but the sheriff had a sore spot where his honor was concerned and under an impassive face he seethed. Mincing words had never been something Brynn excelled at and he wearied of the constant heckling- he wanted to kill something and in that moment he neither knew nor cared if Stubbins had misspoke or was the cultist. But the ragged man blanched, a guilty look on his face, and the sheriff smelled blood in the water. A decidedly predatory grin surged forth upon his face and his gauntleted hand drifted slowly, longingly towards his blade. He had him; he just needed to press his case and Stubbins, the Cultist, would crumple under examination. The sheriff couldn't believe his luck, catching the traitor before planning began, no need to issue false orders or other chicanery…

Then old man Jenkins stood up. Brynn's face clenched in a rictus of horror- he didn't know what the old man had in mind but he had a truly bad feeling, as if his entrails had slithered out- a feeling he'd had only once before. _Whispers harried his ears, fleshless eyes gored him- vast maw, dark hunger, his brothers thronging the lure, soon they would scream, but their silence frightened him more than any sound…_

The sheriff flinched, panic refusing a bridle as Jenkins wheeled to face where Stubbins sat across the hall, a reedy shriek commanding the heretofore absent attention of the hall. "Yer tha' Cultist ain't ye!" Brynn could tell that Jenkins was gesticulating in Stubbins' general direction, but to those just rejoining the conversation a quarter of the assembled now stood under suspicion. Terror long forgotten constricted Brynn's throat, he could not shout- were the torches dimming? _It was so dark and he was so cold..._ Sarlock, returning a now corked flask to her robe, had the misfortune to be sitting next to Stubbins- his smell the reason the skull had been the last remaining seat. Green, assuming his sister was being targeted again, roared like a bull and rushed towards Jenkins, bowling over seats and their occupants- few enough but it made all the difference. Scarlet fell hard when Green broke her grapple, right into Terrance Jenkins' lap, estranged and silent son of Zebadiah and apparently the secret burning desire of Wendy Darren. Or maybe she just hated Scarlet, things were moving too fast for Brynn to start breaking down motivations.

Darren shrieked "WHORE" and whipped her dagger over her head and out- the sheriff, mastering himself, could not help but admire the throw, he had known Darren wasn't soft but she had a rare mastery of knives- it neatly whizzed past bystanders, spinning end over end, slamming hilt first into Scarlet's forehead, knocking her out cold. Adding to the chaos, Brighttree's chair, which he had been using as a stool, was knocked over as Green demolished the front row of seats. The half-elf had remained cognizant of his surroundings and had been moving to help but the spell he launched against Stubbins went foul as Brighttree lost his footing, sending a white star to the roof where it burst just as Green's fist reduced Jenkin's knobbly staff to kindling. The flash bound Brynn's sight; a writhing scream crawled into the sheriff's ears which then heard no more, deafened by the mayor's thrice damned pistol.

It only took a few moments but as the sheriff's senses returned the last few of the wretched cowards were ramming each other out the door, or several of the now broken windows. Not that Brynn had room to condemn- what had seized him? Pushing unpleasant remembrances out of his mind, the sheriff looked to Stubbins' chair. He saw only Sarah, and blood.


	4. Sundown

_A few hours earlier, Stubbins crouched in his rough sod hovel. It stands nestled against a rough spur of rock, damn near the only cover in this place. But while the rocks block the wind they also drink in the cold of this place and are cool to the touch even in high summer. As the back wall of the structure they flood it with cold, and its occupant might well have frozen to death if not for the gift from his god- a rent in the floor, constantly issuing a ragged limb of hot steam, sulfurous and damp. The humidity it brings has left all of Stubbin's possessions moldy and rotting. A ramshackle wooden altar, controlling a quarter of the limited space, is little more than a pile of moldering wood pulp, obscuring whatever it was dedicated too. Stubbins still uses it; globules of discolored wax nurse small flickering flames atop it, part of some rite for they fail to light the room. Jagged alcoves and runes cut into the walls are obscured by black shadows and blacker lichen. Yet Stubbins does not care, the vent and its damp is proof that __**something**__ loves him, rare both in his life and this far north. He nervously worries a hide scrap with a piece of charcoal. Somehow both are dry, where he kept them who can say for the rough hide chest is riddled with holes and moist. He writes:_

_To Duke Winterborne, my teacher and leader,_

_I do not believe I can achieve the task set for me; they begin to suspect something is amiss. The town hall's horn has been sounded. Not only that but the agent of the interloper is aware of my presence- his position is far stronger than mine and I fear he will turn them against me. This place is close to our master's love yet they do not feel it, clinging pathetically to their lost lives and ways. No more have come forth to join us, not even those who can expect only death from the false world of Light. I do not fear death but success is now a remote hope for me. I bitterly regret that I may be unable to serve our master. From him comes my life and meaning; failure is a most meager repayment on my part. Yet I am a meager man and I fear I have found my path too late, with the best of my strength gone. _

_I have completed most of the preparations as we discussed- but it may fall to another to set events in motion. Perhaps I am overreacting. This meeting was not planned but it does not mean I have been found out, perhaps the upstart has been discovered? I can only hope. The sheriff is the only man truly upon his guard in this place, the only one who will know what I have done when he sees it. There is a faction against him in this place, more so than they are against those who refuse to participate in their filthy pursuit of worldly wealth, a fact I must use. If heeded he will prove more dangerous than the interloper, who is slow and feeble unlike the sheriff. He hunts restlessly, alone, and I fear it is for me he hunts. A shorter time than the rest he has spent here yet he has seen parts of its true face, if only the youngest and meanest portions. Such a glimpse makes a man wary like nothing else- does he already know, and merely needs the proof? Irregardless, my time grows short. The way is laid, the continuance of the seal shall not be due to me. If I do not write again soon, I shall see you in the next plane my teacher; thank you for the many gifts you have blessed me with._

_Your servant,_  
_Lester Stubbins_

* * *

The sheriff forced his way through the logjam of chairs on the town hall's floor to where one of the two healers in Farshire sat motionless. Not that Sarlock was a good healer, but in Northrend options are limited.

"Sarah!" Brynn refused to use the name Sarlock; he needed her potions, not her delusions of grandeur. "Are you well?" At the sound of Brynn's voice Sarah turned to him, green eyes wide under a tangle of blonde hair and blood that did not appear to be her own, no wound being obvious. The chair Stubbins had been sitting in, now a broken heap on the floor, offered the answer the stunned alchemist could not. Blood spatters sat upon what had been the back of his chair, the broken end and fletching of one of Jeremiah's arrows mixed in with the scraps of wood. Confident that the alchemist was not injured, the sheriff turned to other matters. A red smear on the closest window frame indicated Stubbins' method of escape; the sheriff would have been more impressed if there were any available hiding spots. Farshire was small, and even the poachers refused to camp in the surrounding tundra. Walking back to the front of the room, Brynn ran over the situation in his mind. There were only so many places he could be, yet Brynn didn't think he would get much help in his search. Mayor Clerk's desk trembled in time with the great orb of an elected official attempting to and just barely failing to hide his bulk behind it. No help from that quarter. Not unusual, but on a more serious note Brynn had thought he was finally rid of the flashbacks- he would have liked to have someone share the burden of command. Yet that part wouldn't be so bad- the drained town hall had precious little manpower. Gerald Green, still blinded and towering over the remains of Zebadiah's cane, was strong but had no weapon skill to the best of the sheriff's knowledge- fisticuffs with the undead tended to end poorly. Still, that was a problem for the actual attack- what the sheriff needed now were pairs of eyes. Zebadiah and his son Stevron, to whom the old man had hastily hobbled to in the confusion, were decent shots with a bow and cunning. The sheriff would sooner enlist the aid of starved wolves- they at least would be predictable. Scarlet lay unconscious across Terrance's lap. As to Terrance, the last name Jenkins was good reason to exclude him but being a decent man he was the black sheep of the family; Brynn could count on him. Jeremiah, Mammoth, Icehorn and Thomas were a foregone conclusion; the sheriff could always rely on them when something needed doing. Darren would be another pair of eyes but the sheriff didn't really need her either. That left Sarlock and Father Miller. Brynn didn't think dragging the alchemist along was a good idea, but Miller was under oath to fight the Cult of the Damned and Scourge wherever they appeared and the sheriff was going to hold him to it just in case anything needed smiting.

Brynn vaulted the railing to the raised platform where the mayor still cowered. "Alright- undead are in the area and our only lead is the cultist who just ran off. Time to go fetch him back- alive, mind you, till some questions have been answered. Who's willing to do their part for the town?" The sheriff shot Miller a meaningful look; the man looked uncertain but stiffened under the accusatory glare. Everyone conscious in the room except the mayor and Brynn raised their hand. Scarlet had been unceremoniously dumped to the floor, and Sarah looked pouty- had she been about to say something? - but otherwise the group before him looked resolute and dependable. Light damn it, he hadn't expected that. The Jenkinses always haughtily declined whenever community aid was called for; the sheriff didn't trust them but couldn't refuse them. That they were usurious bastards grown fat on horrendously unjust loans who undermined the sheriff politically whenever possible was not a defensible excuse to exclude them with an undead menace looming. He'd also been sure that Sarlock would refuse to dirty her hands, and she didn't look happy yet her hand was still up, drawing a worried look from Gerald. Just a few too many surprises in one day for Sheriff Desechain's liking. So that made a... 13 man posse. Light be praised.

"What are you waiting for then? Everyone outside and mount up!" Brynn strode briskly out the door, pushing aside chairs with more force than was necessary. Sensing his mood, his horse began snorting as soon as it saw the sheriff. What he would give for a proper warhorse. The others filed out as he stroked the animal, trying to calm it down. Thomas nimbly took the seat of his hawkstrider, which bent its knees as he did so, making the task considerably easier. Its plumage was dull but the more ornamental breeds were much less hardy, making what had been intended as a slight by Thomas' family a very useful gift. Gerald hauled himself onto his monstrous draft horse, far heftier than its peers as was its owner. Jeremiah and his cohorts swung into the saddles of shaggy garrons, bows in easy reach. The poachers hated firing from horseback, too difficult, but it seemed they were making an exception for this. Sarah was looking at him as if she expected a boost up then mounted her garron with a huff, wrenching her hood up in a sharp and angry motion. Zebadiah mounted a pale horse with a swiftness that belied his advanced years, while Stevron methodically mounted a red stallion; Brynn studiously avoided eye contact with them. Father Miller began to speak as the sheriff mounted his steed.

"I'm afraid I can't keep up so well, just have my mule here. I'll make the best time that I can, I'll be caught up and healing people before you even knew I was gone." He offered the group a weak smile at odds with the fear in his eyes. The priest nearly jumped out of his skin and seat when the mule shifted its weight, his brown hair and robe rumpled. Twitchy, and looking to hang back. The sheriff knew how to fix that.

"Volunteering for the rearguard Father? That's the most dangerous spot in the column; if the undead decide to attack you'll be the first to know. Courageous, your faith is an inspiration to us all!" The sheriff paused to let those words sink in then laid out his plan. "Alright, only so many places this cultist could be, so we check his house first before we start splitting ourselves up; don't know what he has up his sleeve so we need to be careful." Sheriff Desechain set a brisk trot down what passed for the main street in Farshire, dust from the brittle ground swirling around the hooves and claws of their mounts. He smiled to himself as he saw Father Miller's mule seemed to be keeping up just fine. They soon left the town behind, what little of it there was. Unpainted clapboard and sod houses on either side of the dirt track, the gaping maw of the mine, and the Green family smithy, a unique building in that no part of it was sagging. Smoke rose from every chimney but no one greeted them as the sun began to set. Cowards.

Their destination lay only a few minutes outside town- a desolate spur of rock barely visible from the northern edge of Farshire- it wasn't the homestead the furthest to the north but it was close, and none of those further out came to town with any regularity. If an undead push was coming it would pass here first. Dwarfed by the shadows keeping pace on their right flank, Brynn felt uneasy. Stubbins' sickly mule lay a about a hundred yards south of the rock- foam coated its muzzle; it appeared it had been ridden to death. Grimacing and speaking in a soft voice that nonetheless brooked no argument, the sheriff split the group in two to pincer around the rock- Stubbins' house, if it could be called that, lay on the other side, hidden from town and always in the sun. The Jenkinses, Father Miller, Mammoth and Sarah took the right side, falling into shadow while Brynn and the remainder hooked to the left. The mound of sod blazed a sickly orange in the dying light, grass feebly clinging to the three sides. The dull gray spur towered over them all, dwarfing the hut that looked too small for a man to stand in. A hide door, untied, flapped in an air current as the group reunited in front of the hovel.

Stubbins emerged unbidden. He looked small, his posture hunched enough that he could pass through the low door. A mane of thinning hair wreathed his head, broken by sores and more devoid of luster than the sheriff's faded locks. The right shoulder of his robes had been cut away, revealing the broken haft and arrowhead embedded in his gaunt shoulder. "Sheriff, if I might have the chance to explain myself?" His raspy voice sounded as bad as the man looked.

The sheriff fingered the handle of his saber. "Miller? Brighttree?" Father Miller looked lost until Thomas responded.

"No enchantments or spells on this area that I can detect."

"Uh... I sense no undead presences" stammered the priest. Brynn had far more faith in Thomas' abilities than the priest's but he couldn't see where any undead would be hiding, and the earth around the area was undisturbed- no crypt fiends burrowing. Brynn swung down from his saddle, crossing his arms and fixing the ragged man with a piercing glare.

"Lester Stubbins- you stand accused of membership in the Cult of the Damned, the penalty for which is death. Speak now in your defense as is your right or admit your guilt."

Zebadiah's sputtering indignation prevented Stubbins from speaking. "Wha- naw sherriff- we have naw time fer' this, kill tha blaggard now!"

"My father is right" added Stevron in an odd voice- it sounded as if it were a phrase repeated more out of habit than any sentiment. Terrance snorted derisively.

"There is always time to do the honorable thing."

"Wha would ye know h'about it de-"

"Enough! Stubbins, say your piece."

"It seems I made a mistake sheriff, allow me to explain meself and you'll understand that I'm no follower of the Lich King!"

"You seem to know a lot about where I was this morning for someone who wasn't linked with the shade."

"I've been keeping vigil on this place, the last holdout of humanity in Northrend, miserable as it is. In these observations for my master I have learned a great deal, which now I shall share with you for both our ends." Stubbins' manner had changed- his voice was no longer so raspy and Thomas was the only person Brynn had ever heard speak in such a formal manner; this beggar had more dignity than the mayor, not that such a thing was difficult. Sarah, standing next to the sheriff, looked as confused as he felt. Wait, why was she off her horse? "Sheriff Desechain, what I have learned and what you must understand is that-!" All the sheriff understood was that Stevron had just shot Stubbins in the throat, sending him to his knees with his throat a bloody ruin, choking on his own blood.

"Wha- I thought we were taking him alive brother? How the blazes are we supposed to question a corpse? Dammit Stevron! What were you thinking?"

"I don't owe you an explanation brother" replied Stevron, his voice flat and monotone, overriding his brother's strident yell.

"Yeah? What about the sheriff? Reckon you should tell him why you defied direct orders and the plan, endangering the whole town? Sheriff? What say you to... what's wrong?"

Brynn had not been following the conversation, but rather watched as the skin on Stubbin's body grew taught and he jerkily regained his feet, his -it's?- shaggy head bearded red and tilted back, unseeing. Steam rushed from the hovel behind Stubbins as he extended to his full height like a hanged man. Before he could make his next move the sulfurous cloud swept over all concerned, blinding and warm. The setting sun painted the fumes violet, enhanced by the deadly beauty of nightfall, the tell-tale chill driven off for now. Stubbins must have a vent in his hut to one of the caverns under Farshire- Brynn knew some of the reservoirs ran hot but even so the sheriff would have thought some magic was at work, even if Stubbins walking around with arterial blood spraying from his neck hadn't been a clue. How had Thomas missed something magical?

Whether there was some object doing this or Stubbins had magic the half-elf should have caught it. Hooves pounded, men cursed and a horse screamed. Over the rush of steam issuing from the earth Brynn heard a wet ripping sound, cutting of the horse's last breath. Had Stubbins or whatever force responsible for keeping him alive killed one of the posse? They were at a distinct disadvantage. Jeremiah and Brighttree had been the men the sheriff had been counting on- the deadly bowman and skilled mage. The steam negated their superior range and they were liable to hit a friend in this mess. Icehorn and Mammoth lacked Jeremiah's savvy, leaving him as alone as Thomas. Sarlack, now wrapped around the sheriff's right arm, probably wasn't going to contribute anything to this fight. And it would be a fight, whatever this was would simply have left with the onrush of steam if that was its intention. Instead it was sticking around and making flesh-ripping noises. Since no one had screamed since they were probably beyond Father Miller's help, healing being all that he brought to the table, and even that the sheriff was unsure of if it came down to it. The man was unseasoned and naive, liable to run, oaths to aid the wounded or no. Anyone seriously hurt would most likely die on the spot or bleed out before the Father composed himself. Brynn had not wanted to bring any of the Jenkinses and fully expected them to stab him in the back if it was in any way convenient. That left Wendy and Gerald, bringing fists and thrown daggers with no stopping power to bear against the cultist who had now reanimated into some form of higher undead. Brynn was reevaluating the decisions he had made that had resulted in him not being on his horse, and also those that had caused his appointment as sheriff. Honorable actions- he should have learned better seeing how well such courses had served him in the past. Seizing Sarlock, the sheriff backed briskly along the left side of the rock spur; Stubbins probably hadn't gone far and the sheriff would like to have his now-drawn sword between monstrosities and his vital organs, thank you very much.

"Don't worry Sheriff Desechain, I'm sure the others are alright! We can link up as soon as we-"

_"I'm sure the Prince is alright Corporal Desechain, just finishing off the last few of those wretched undead, he'll link back up with us. I'm sure he has a plan to get us off this freezing hellhole."_

"-get rid of this mist, and I think I have just the potion!" Shaking himself, the sheriff was shocked to see that Sarlock had abandoned her role as an anchor and was busily mixing potions, somehow managing not to drop anything as she juggled seven crude bottles imprisoning substances of various sickly colors, the largest, a vastly oversized wine bottle with a thin neck and sphere reservoir of which was smoking. She rammed the neck of the smallest inside the largest with a crunching noise as it foamed violently, disgorging blood red foam into the off-white contents of the largest bottle. Sarlock strode past Brynn with a purpose he had never seen in her before, bracing the orb body of the bottle on her hip. The small bottle shattered under the pressure of the swirling contents, spraying shards of glass and a violently expanding pink foam into the mist. While all but the glass dissipated quickly, the steam instantly condensed to water in the path of the foam, spraying several body lengths in front of Sarlock.

"Sarlock, you did this without an alchemy lab?"

"Please, call me Sarah!" _What does that have to do with anything?_ She leaned back and began to pull her hood back, bracing the bottle against herself then shifted violently to avoid the spray of foam as it returned to the frozen ground, where it sizzled menacingly. There was already a large clear area in front of the pair.

"With this we have a real chance of winning-" As the steam began to part Brynn stiffened in horror- a severed head somehow stood before them in a small pool of blood, as if to block their escape route. Then, for one joyous moment, Brynn thought it was Zebadiah- the stoat-like face and eyes so squinty they appeared closed were distinctive even with the giant red handprint across them. But the head had hair- Terrance, not his father. Damn. Then the head fell on its side, and pebbles rained down on Brynn and Sarah from the rock shelf behind them as something massive moved in the steam.

What had once been the man called Lester Stubbins stood before them, shrouded in the receding white cloud that magnified his wrongness rather than concealing it. His arms had burst open, revealing dark, thick and tentacular parodies of his hands and forearms, slick with blood and wreathed in mangled flesh. The ruined head had begun to swell and a long tentacle had burst from the wound on his shoulder; grey hide, the same shade as his hands, was visible in the gaping wound at his throat. Even worse were his legs, swollen to thrice their size, with tears ripping wide in the taut skin.

"That doesn't look like undead..." observed the sheriff- Sarah just made a gagging sound.

The-man-that-was shifted, revealing Terrance's headless corpse still clutched in its left tentacle-hand; it raised the body over its head, gripped by one leg like a flail, and rushed forward with furious wail, elephantine legs bursting from their fleshy sheaths.


End file.
